I've been debating the idea of evading the truth, of not telling him that I represent Willie until I've gotten information out of him. In the moment, though, I can't do it. He has the right to know, as well as the right to throw me out if he so chooses.
“I represent the man that the police say killed her. I believe they have the wrong man.”
He doesn't respond, just rocks slightly back and forth, thinking it through.
“I understand the feelings you must have,” I say. “But I would very much appreciate your talking to me.”
“I heard about the retrial … Mr. Wallace called me. I can't say I'm happy about it.”
He thinks some more, and I wait. “But I want the real killer to be punished, and I can't see how talking to someone can hurt the chance of that.”
“Thank you.”
He invites me into the trailer for a cup of coffee, and I follow him in. His blindness certainly doesn't interfere with his ability to get around, and he gets the coffee up and brewing in a matter of maybe three minutes.
While he's doing so, I look around the place. There are some pictures on the wall. One of them is of a young woman, perhaps twenty-one years old, sitting on a horse. It is the first photo I have seen of Denise McGregor that wasn't taken by the coroner, and it makes the fact of her brutal death all the more horrifying.
“She was a very beautiful young lady,” I say.
Obviously, Wally can't see where I am, so he asks, “Which picture are you looking at?”
“Denise sitting on a horse.”
Wally nods. “She was beautiful, that's for sure. But that's not Denise … that's her mother, Julie. Everybody says how much they looked alike.”
“Oh. Is Julie—”
“Alive?” he interrupts. “Can't say as I know. She left me and Denise when Denise was only a year or so old. Julie wasn't the family type; she couldn't be tied down. So when she found herself stuck with a husband and a child, well, she took off and never looked back.”
Wally McGregor lost his wife, his daughter, and his sight, yet he has the knack of making a visitor feel completely comfortable. It's a great knack to have.
“And you raised Denise by yourself?”
He laughs. “Once I lost my sight, it was more like she raised me. There was nothing Denise couldn't do.”
“Do you have any idea what she was working on at the time she was killed?”
“Sure don't. But Denise used to call me and read me all her articles once they got in the paper. I got such a kick out of that. She was some writer.”
I had read her articles, and he is right. She was a terrific writer.
“And you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”
“No. Everybody loved Denise … it don't make no sense … you'd have to ask Miller why he did what he did.”
“So you think it was him?”
He shrugs. “I just know what the police told me. But if you're looking for a reason for Denise to have died, there ain't none.”
He shakes his head and relives the senselessness of it for the millionth time. “Damn, there just ain't none.”
I can see that Wally is starting to get upset, and I give him time to let the pain subside. I know people that have lost children, and they tell me the pain never goes away, it's there twenty-four hours a day, but that after a while you develop techniques that can help to mask it. Wally manages to do that, and we have a conversation that steers clear of Denise.
Later I ask him about Edward Markham, and he tells me that they never met, not even at the funeral. Edward sent a large floral arrangement and a condolence letter, but did not show up personally. Wally doesn't seem particularly upset about the slight; Edward never really had any importance to him. Denise, in fact, had never mentioned Edward.
It's almost time for me to leave, and Wally knows he hasn't given me what I need. He brings it up himself. “So you think it could have been someone else that killed her?”
I nod. “That's what I think. It's not what I know.”
“If you find out something, I want to know. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” I say. It's one I'm going to keep, no matter how this turns out.
It's too late to go back to the office, so I head home. There's a pile of personal